He clenched his jaw. He spoke and his voice was even deeper than usual and there was a harshness to it. “A husband and a wife might do what a stallion and a mare do.”
“Yes. Coitus, like I said.”
“They might perform the act in the same position as horses do. The wife facing away from the husband.”
Her mind went back to Monday, George standing behind her while she was still in her chemise and her petticoat, him holding and touching her breasts. She had put her bottom against him, rubbed it against his thighs. He was too tall for his cock to be between her cheeks but there had been an itch for that, hadn’t there? To feel his hardness against that part of her softness. To feel his shaft brushing near her achy empty place, but from behind.
“There would be no kissing with that kind of coitus, would there?”
“No. But I have been told it provides a different kind of pleasure for the wife.”
“Do you think it’s important I know about that kind of pleasure?”
“Phoebe. You should have any pleasure you want.” His hand closed over hers and he gave a half twist to her wrist and laid her hand back down on the counterpane, facing up. Then the tips of his fingers began to trace circles on her palm.
She shivered. She did not know her palm was so sensitive.
“All right,” she said.
“All right, what?”
“I want to be a mare. To see if I like it.” She already knew she would like it. The pulsing achiness that was usually so much in front was spreading to the back, to the places where her bottom met the bed.
And he wanted her. And she wanted to be wanted.
“May we kiss first, Phee?”
“Horses don’t kiss.”
“No, they nip and nuzzle, don’t they? But we’re not really horses, are we? I’m a man and you’re a woman, and I’ve been looking forward to kissing you again, very much.”
She looked at his lap. He was very large already, straining against his trousers. He didn’t need kissing. But he wanted kissing. From her.
“All right.”
A quick movement and he was against her, holding her head in both his hands, taking her mouth with his. Heat flared all over her body. Because now when he filled her mouth with his tongue, she could only think of having him inside her. Being his mare.
His hands were on her breasts, kneading, owning, even as he continued to ravish her lips. His square thumbs abraded her nipples through her nightdress.
He broke the kiss, his voice jagged and rough. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She could only shake her head and let out a guttural sound. Then she was holding his head and pulling him back down to kiss him. Her groin and her whole bottom ached as he pawed at her chest.
Not breaking her mouth’s contact with his, she slid off the mattress and stood between his legs, she the taller one now, one of her hands stroking his head, the other grasping his length.
His hands left her breasts and he pulled her closer, clutching the cheeks of her bottom where the new ache resided, down at the lowest part, where her legs started.
“Teach me, George,” she gasped.
Another abrupt movement from him and he was standing and pushing her down over the mattress, her breasts crushed into the counterpane. And his hands were on her legs through the nightdress, lifting her up, and shoving her forward.
His voice was harsh. “You’re too short to stand. Get on your knees.”
She moaned and trembled but got her knees under her and backed up toward the edge of the bed, looking over her shoulder at him.
His hands were on the waist of her nightdress.
“Phee—” he said and his face changed. His dark eyes had something in them besides lust. He was George. Her best friend.
